


everybody else's girl

by cherryvanilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Early in Canon, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Episode: s01e08 Bugs, Episode: s02e11 Playthings, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Pining, Pre-Series, Romance, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9279653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/pseuds/cherryvanilla
Summary: "What the hell, Sammy? What even was that?"Sam shrugs. "Something to do."Dean blinks at her. "Something to do. Pretending I'm your boyfriend. Something todo."(Or, five times they pretended to be a couple + one time they were)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eternalsojourn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalsojourn/gifts).



> Yet another 5+1 times thing, and more couple-related shenanigans, this time -- fake dating! All of the pining from early on but nothing underage. Always-a-girl!Sam is played by Missy Peregrym (who else). Song usage correlate to canon timeline of ages. Goes vague au in season 4. 
> 
> Thanks to Abby for beta, and this is for Rena <33 
> 
> Title by Tori Amos
> 
> Graphic for one of two mixes (both linked at end):

**Track 1: Torn** \-- _Illusion never changed into something real_

Sam's rebellious stage starts pretty young. By eight, she's angry and frustrated all the time; at the fact that she rarely stays at one school for more than a few months, that the other girls get to go to birthday parties at the paint palace and join gymnastics. Sam is never invited to parties and is told by her dad that extracurricular activities cost too much.

It's also the year she finds out the truth about why they do what they do; she finds out on Christmas. 

Dean tries to frame it that they have the best dad ever, but the fact of the matter is there's one person in a motel room with her right now, one person who tried to give her a Christmas, and that person isn't Dad. So she gives the necklace Bobby gave her to Dean, and it fills her with happiness to see him put it on. 

Things wax and wane after that, in terms of how much she accepts her life. She lets some things go, pitches a fit about others. Dad picks his battles with her, and Sam wonders if sometimes he's a little easier on her because she's a girl. That thought makes her even madder. 

One day when she's fifteen, she's feeling particularly moody. Maybe it's because she has to deal with stupid period cramps and is surrounded by a family of boys who don't have that problem and don't get her. Maybe it's because they're in another no-name town that they're just gonna leave in two weeks anyway. All Sam knows is that it's just her and Dean at the diner right now, Dad off on a hunt, and Sam's bored. Bored with life, bored with this place, bored with it all. 

And for some reason, when the waitress comes to take their order -- Dean's eyes on her chest for far longer than it takes to read her name tag -- Sam finds herself saying, "Can you order for me, babe? You always know what I like."

She smiles at Dean, smiles at him the way the waitress just was, and watches Dean gape like a fish. 

"Uh. She uh," Dean looks quickly up at the waitress and then back at Sam, eyes hard and questioning. "She'll have grilled cheese with tomato and a chocolate milkshake."

Dean orders for himself in a daze while Sam smiles sunnily at him. He waits for the waitress to leave before kicking her shin under the table. 

"What the hell, Sammy? What even was that?"

Sam shrugs. "Something to do."

Dean blinks at her. "Something to do. Pretending I’m your boyfriend. Something to _do_." 

"Yeah," she says, giggling. It's always fun to get a rise out of Dean and wow, was he annoyed right now. 

"You're ridiculous," he says, flinging a pepper packet in her direction and still eying her curiously, as if she was under some kind of curse or something. 

"Whatever," Sam says, sitting back and crossing her arms over her chest smugly. "You still ordered my favorite lunch meal." 

"I was in shock!" 

Sam laughs and is still laughing when the waitress comes back to bring the drinks. Dean’s taken to flinging sugar packets now and Sam's dodging them at every turn. Pretty soon he's laughing too, helpless. 

"You two are adorable," the waitress says, and Sam's face heats of its own accord. 

Dean freezes before recovering quickly. "You hear that, pumpkin? We're adorable," he says, glaring at Sam through his fake grin. 

"Yeah, I heard," Sam replies faintly and tries not to focus on why her stomach is suddenly in knots.

So much for being bored.  
___________________

 **Track 2: Awful** \-- _Just shut up, you're only sixteen_

She does it again, a year later. She’s not even really planning to. Not after that day and the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about what that waitress said and what that even meant. 

“You two are adorable.” She might as well have said, “You two look happy” and when Sam had started thinking about it -- well, Dean _did_ make her happy. Sometimes he was the only thing in this world that did, even when they’d fight and call each other names and she’d kick the back of his seat in the Impala while he’d yell at her to “Stop ruining the goods, this baby is gonna be mine soon.” 

Dad gives Dean the Impala when he turns twenty, taking off in his pickup truck to run after whatever it is this week. They’re in another town, except this time it’s sort of for a job. There’s rumors there’s something haunting the students at the local high school. 

Sam gets to enroll as part of the job and partly just because she’s a sixteen-year-old kid and is supposed to be in school. If she’s lucky, she’ll get at least a few grades to add to her ever-moving transcript. But this time is different. This time Dean’s enrolling with her, and that hasn’t happened since Dean decided to drop out last year, officially proclaiming he was too old to still not be done with high school and who cares if he only had a few more credits to go; Sam didn’t speak to him for a week. 

So Dean enrolls under the guise of the job, but he’s not enrolling as Dean Winchester, using one of this week’s aliases and doctored records he got from Caleb before he and Dad had taken off. 

“You’re so stupid,” Sam had whispered to him the night before, the two of them sharing a room with Dad still there. “You could at least try and graduate.” 

“No point, Sammy. Tell me what math and science would do for me in the long run.” 

“Uh, a lot? You never know what we might be up against, what skill sets we might --” 

“Okay, brainiac, just calm your tits, huh? I’m not going to be finishing school. Just play nice with your cooler, better-looking older cousin tomorrow, eh, and maybe we’ll solve this damn thing with minimal drama.” 

Sam had scoffed and flipped over, punching her pillow. “It’s Sam,” she muttered into it and ignored Dean’s low, incredulous laughter. 

Maybe it's because she’s still resentful of Dean’s rejection of anything close to normal that makes her push back to the exact opposite. She doesn’t analyze it too hard, just finds herself grinning at him as he passes her in the hall while she’s up against a locker talking to one of the girls she met in homeroom. He grins back, giving her a little salute. 

“Yo, Sammy,” says Dean, smirk heavy in his voice. 

It’s classic Dean, a scene that's played out before them in a hundred different high schools across the country. He loved showing off how he was bigger, cooler. Dean wore confidence like a shield, and it was only because Sam was who she was that she started to see the little cracks in the armor. 

“Wow, who’s that?” Nicole asks. 

“Oh, him? That’s my boyfriend.” She knows Dean’s still within earshot, probably wouldn’t have said it otherwise, despite the lingering annoyance of the night before. Some things just weren’t fun without a payoff. 

“Hey, watch it, man!” Sam hears to her left, and hides a giggle behind her books, not needing to look to know that Dean’s slammed chest first into someone. 

“You watch it,” Dean barks back. Sam does look then; Dean’s still walking away, but his eyes are on her, that same incredulous look from the diner shining in them. 

“He’s hot,” Nicole says faintly. 

Sam silently agrees.  
__________________________

“You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’,” Dean announces, flopping down beside Sam on the bleachers during lunch. 

“And you’ve watched my copy of Grease too many times.” 

“Sandy’s hot,” Dean shrugs, stealing the Twizzler she was biting right out of her hand and eating it himself.

“Dean! Gross!” 

He chews obnoxiously before giving her a slow, patient look. “If you find _that_ gross, Sam, maybe you shouldn’t be telling people we’re banging.” 

Her cheeks heat and she looks away, blushing furiously. “I never said -- I was just --” 

Dean snorts and claps her on the shoulder. “Yeah, kiddo, you’re all bark and no bite, I know.” 

Sam frowns and elbows him in the ribs. “Shut up. Jerk.” 

“Bitch,” he replies cheerfully. He squeezes her shoulder, laughing, but leaves his hand there -- drapes it across her back. Sam swallows hard. “Might be onto something, though.” 

“Huh?” Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, every synapse lit up where Dean is touching her, a solid presence against her side, a strong weight across her upper back, curved around her. 

“I did some smooth investigating today and the hauntings seem to be going down at a makeout point near the school.” 

Sam rolls her eyes at ‘smooth investigating’ because in Dean speak, that means turning on the charm to librarians and teachers. She freezes, though, when the rest of what he says catches up. 

“Oh,” Sam replies.

He must read something in her tone, because he stiffens immediately, jostling her a little. “Hey, just pretend, okay? Like when we were kids and we played Tarzan.” 

Sam would jump between the hotel beds, pretending she was swinging from trees. Dean would be there to catch her. 

It’s memories like those why she can’t tell him that it’s not the thought of doing anything for real that’s making her mind race; it's the thought of not.  
____________________

That night Sam finds herself in the front seat of Impala with her brother. It's not an unlikely scene in and of itself except for the fact that around them are cars full of other juniors and seniors, windows already steamed up. Dean’s got his arm around her but he’s looking around, on alert. Sam shivers at the press of his fingers against her forearm. 

“You cold?” he whispers.

She shakes her head, not trusting her voice. 

"Here," Dean says and shifts, untangling from her and shrugging off his leather jacket. 

He slips it around her shoulders. 

"For effect," he smirks. 

Sam snorts, even as her insides are fluttering. "You do this to all the girls?"

He pauses a moment.

"You ain't all the girls, Sammy."

His voice is low, serious, a sincerity there that only seems to come out when they're in peril or Sam's hurting emotionally. 

Sam catches his gaze. It feels heavy with something she can't quite pinpoint. 

Her lip trembles and Dean reaches out, thumbs the corner of her mouth like he's trying to chase it away. 

"I'll turn the heat up," he says, voice rough, the sound shooting right through her. 

He moves blindly, even as Sam says again, "I'm fine."

"You're shaking," Dean says, frown in his voice. "You gettin' sick or somethin'?" His hands start rubbing up and down her arms, as if on automatic, the two of them turned sideways toward each other now. "Don't need your germs, shorty." 

"Shut up," Sam says. She's growing every day, still. She'll probably be an inch or two taller than him one day. 

Dean smiles, knocks his knuckles against her cheek. Sam shivers at the touch, a visible thing. 

Dean's eyes narrow. "Sam?"

She shakes her head, imperceptible. 

Dean's eyes start to widen a little now, his thumb inching down to her jaw. "Sammy..."

"Dean," she whispers, feeling like she's coming apart at the seams. Her eyes fall shut as another unconscious shiver makes its way over her skin at his touch. When she opens them he looks stunned, helpless. 

Time seems to stop then, her head tilted up, his fingers frozen on her face. She'll never be sure if he started to move closer or if it was all in her head, her heart beating triple time at the thought of him doing in this car with her what he's done with countless other girls. 

She'll never know because just then there's a loud scream and Dean's pulling back, cursing and jumping out of the car. 

"Time to lock and load, Sammy!" Dean shouts, and then they're shooting a spirit full of rock salt by one of the nearby cars, and Sam's reciting an incantation of what they figured was for a scorned lover. 

It ends up doing the trick. Rumors spread around school pretty quickly, so they don't end up going back for more than another day. Dad shows up shortly after that anyway, so it's not like it matters. 

They don't talk about what nearly happened in the car. They're Winchesters, why would they? Sam can still barely mention her mother's name without getting her head taken off. 

One of the nights before Dad comes back, she touches herself, taking advantage of not having to do it in the bathroom since Dean is using Dad’s room. 

Her thighs shake when she comes, Dean's name a mantra under her breath. 

She wonders if he's doing the same fifty feet away. 

____________________

 **Track 3: I'm like a bird** \-- _I don't know where my home is_

The next time it happens, they're on a case, and Dean's the one that starts it. 

"It worked that other time," he says, not looking at her. It's the one and only time he's brought up that night in the eighteen months since it happened. 

It's summer, it's hot, and Sam's got an admission letter to Stanford from the PO Box they've still got in Lawrence burning a hole in her back pocket. 

She's started to tell Dean a million times and hasn't been able to. This thing between them --or Sam's thing, whatever it is -- hasn't gotten easier in the past year and a half. If anything, it's gotten worse. 

She's eighteen now, and she's filled out, more soft curves and less lankiness. Sometimes she can swear she can feel Dean's eyes on her in the rearview, and it washes over her like an all-consuming wave. 

The job is a simple haunting of a house that's found each new owner dying under mysterious circumstances shortly after moving in. Dean suggests they check it out by being potential buyers. He actually tells Dad the plan on the phone, who's off with Bobby allegedly tracking the thing that killed Mom but probably just getting drunk by some lake and fishing. 

Sam’s finding it increasingly harder to believe in anything. She wants to major in criminal justice, wants to see what it's like when you play by the rules to achieve the outcome you desire instead of blindly taking matters into your own hands. 

“I trust you, son,” is what she hears John say through the phone at Dean's admission, and Sam has to balk. Trusts him? To what? Get the job done? Not mack on his sister? 

Sam sighs in disgust and flops down on the couch, grabbing for her book, long legs hanging over the arm. 

“Move,” Dean says when he comes into the room. 

“Fuck you, no,” Sam says, not looking up from the page. It's actually recommended summer reading for a class she's going to register in. Dean doesn't know that.

“Cut the shit, Sam.” 

He doesn't say it in his normal pissed way. He says it like he's tired, weary. 

“Whatever, Dean.”

She swings her legs down and stalks off into her room, ignoring his mutters of “fucking teenagers, fucking moods” and leaning back against the door, eyes shut tight and stomach lurching. 

She's going to leave him. She's going to leave him in a month, and she has no idea what he's gonna do or say. Or how she'll get along without him. He'll never go with her, no matter how much he loves her. She knows this. 

Asking would be too painful. 

So they do this thing, the two of them barely speaking when they're alone, yet playing the role of happy couple to the realtor. 

They get the scoop on the place, stealthily look for marks of a poltergeist or other haunting, run an EMF when the woman is busy showing Sam the kitchen like she actually cares. 

“It screams us, doesn't it, baby?” Dean says cheerfully when he walks back in from the bedroom. His eyes are shining “gotcha,” and Sam knows something must have turned up. Too bad she's more interested in the fact that he's tugging her in close and pressing a noisy kiss to her temple. 

“Awww, I just love newlyweds,” Emily says. 

Sam resists the urge to roll her eyes. 

“And that's just what we are,” Dean says, playing it up. “You wanna look at the bedroom again, honey?” It's a loud whisper against her ear.

Sam pinches his ribs, hard, delighting in his choked off yelp. “I'm good.”

“No, seriously, Sam,” Dean says and she can hear the warning in his voice. “Go check out the bedroom.” When Emily looks at him curiously, he just shrugs. “Wanna make sure that king size fits, right? Sam's the one with the eye for detail, I just look pretty.”

“Be right back, _sweetie_ ,” she says through gritted teeth, and takes a look at the bedroom. There's a cold spot along the wall where there's no window, there's a faint smell of sulfur. Bingo. 

“Bed can definitely fit,” Sam says, rejoining Dean by his side. 

“Mm, can't wait to use it,” he says, sleazy as all get out, arm wrapped low around her waist. She hates herself for the thrill it sends right to her center. 

This isn't why she's leaving, but it certainly doesn't help. 

They come back that night, breaking into the house easily. There's no furniture so they sit on the floor. Sam falls asleep and wakes up when a rush of cold passes over her. Her head had been on Dean's shoulder. The poltergeist tries to take them out, and talking to it, trying to draw it out so they can actually get rid of it, goes nowhere. 

The charade has to go on longer, interviews with the neighbors, posing as eager, hopeful homeowners who want to get to know the area before settling down. It means sitting too close on couches even though their concept of personal space has always been challenged to begin with. It means learning about the people who lived in the house and trying to trace the source back, all while trying not to notice the heat of Dean’s thigh against her own and the way he idly plays with strands of her hair when his arm is around her shoulders. 

It isn't until they talk to an older couple who tell them about a troubled veteran who tried to find peace and solace in the neighborhood, but ended up taking his own life, that they hit the jackpot. Sam hits the town clerk’s office while Dean grabs them some lunch. After dark, they dig up and salt and burn the bones of William Pickford. 

When they go back to the house the next day, all activity is gone. They tell Emily they're going to have to pass and leave Samantha and Dean Morrison, newlyweds, behind. 

Sam feels an emptiness when they walk out the door, like she's saying goodbye to a life she never had to begin with. It's not one she could _ever_ have, not with Dean anyway. Not like that. But if she tries hard enough, maybe she could learn to want it with someone else. 

“You were great back there, Sammy,” Dean says when they've arrived back at the motel, putting the car in park. Dad still isn't back. Sam's always felt like the scales tip when he's not around, teetering on the edge of something dangerous, even though it's probably all in her head. 

It's easier to believe, though, when Dean sounds like he just did. All low praise and pride, like Sam's the most perfect thing in three counties. 

“Dean,” she says, the word sticking in her mouth. 

He looks at her, eyes open, happy. The earlier tension of that week somehow evaporated. “Yeah?”

“I--” but her mouth refuses to work. She looks down at her hands. “You were pretty great, too.”

She thinks it's that smile, the unguarded pleased, brilliant one -- all sheer honesty and nothing masked -- that she'll miss the most.

____________________

 **Track 4: Incomplete** \-- _I tried to go on like I never knew you_

They end up squatting in a rental house as a result of a case while on the road to this thing that killed Jess and Mom, and their quest to find Dad. 

Pretending to be a couple never even crossed Sam’s mind; she was still too numb to even concentrate on these cases most days, but she was also more driven than she ever has been. 

So it had been a surprise when the agent just assumed they were. 

“We're siblings,” Dean quickly corrected, and Sam had no idea what it meant, if anything, that he didn't go along with the charade. For the first time since she’d wrestled him to the floor of her Palo Alto apartment, thinking he was just some intruder, Sam was thrown back into her feelings for her brother, the ones she'd thought she finally had a lid on. 

The sharp curl of pain she’d felt at Dean's words was pathetic. After all, he'd just been telling the truth. They're _siblings_ and they've never been more, despite the active fantasies in Sam's teenage brain. They aren't supposed to be more. 

“Come on, I want to try out the steam shower,” Dean's saying now, grinning brightly. Sam hates the flare of arousal that runs through her at the words. Worse, she immediately feels guilty, thinks about Jess, buried in the ground in California, her fault, all her fault. 

All she thinks about while in the house is that time when she was eighteen, Dean's arm around her waist, insinuating about king size beds in front of the realtor. When she meets his eyes, she wonders if he's remembering the same thing. 

When the job is done, they get back on the road. It still feels kind of surreal being by Dean's side in the Impala again. 

When he stops to gas up, she starts fiddling with the radio. She doesn't get far before he's back and slapping her hand away.

“Hey, hey, what did I tell you?”

Sam rolls her eyes. “Come on, Dean, the steady block of Metallica is getting old.”

Dean gasps, exaggeratedly. “Blasphemy, Samantha!”

“It's Sam,” she retorts on automatic. He snorts and takes a sip of his coffee, shifting into drive. 

“Please, I know the shit your girly ass listened to as a kid. Those Backbeat Boys.” 

“Back _street_ , Dean. And a lot you know; I was an 'N SYNC girl.”

“You're not doin’ yourself any favors here, Sammy.”

Sam flips him off, and Dean laughs, that bright, unguarded laugh that goes straight to her god damn heart.

Dean's been in a particularly talkative mood today. They've had a lot of time together on the road, and they definitely talk, but sometimes it's also a comfortable silence. 

Sam looks out the dash, swallowing. 

“Jess was actually more into Back--” Sam cuts herself off mid sentence, shock and grief welling up inside her. She didn't mean to--

She looks out the passenger side window, sees her vague reflection and the quick shine of tears. 

The air is heavy until Dean clears his throat, voice low. “I never knew you were… into girls.”

Sam smiles sadly, still looking out the window. “Yeah well, now you know.”

“Yeah,” Dean says quietly, and Sam remembers the way he held her after he pulled her out of the apartment, the way he wouldn't let her go as she shook with fat tears that were threatening to spill down her cheeks. 

Sam opens her mouth, closes it again. Breathing in deep, she says, “Jess was -- I didn't have any girlfriends before her. Barely had any boyfriends.” 

She cuts her eyes to look at Dean then, unable to stop herself. He looks -- careful, interested. 

“Nothing special, anyway.” They moved so much that high school only got her so far on the sexual exploration front. College helped it some, and she fucked a few guys to try and chase away the memory of her brother’s eyes and smile. No one stuck. Not till Jess. 

“Right,” Dean says. 

Sam feels a little raw but she's glad to have gotten that out. 

“Hey, you remember when I wanted to take you to the Fleetwood Mac reunion tour for your 14th birthday and you laughed in my face?”

Sam blinks at the non-sequitur, before a lazy smile takes over her face. It was classic Dean. Diversion. Protection. 

“Yeah, because I didn't even know who they were and you just wanted someone to go with.”

“It was the thought that counted, Sammy.”

“The selfish thought,” Sam snorts. 

It's so easy to fall back into their dynamic. It was easy the second she hit the road with Dean, back when she thought it would just be a weekend thing. 

“Not my fault you have no taste. Besides, Stevie Nicks is a cool chick.”

Sam couldn't deny that. Looking back, she actually regretted not going. She'd never tell Dean that, though. 

“So what abomination that you call music are you listening to these days, little sister?”

Dean was taking it a step further. Less diversion and distraction and more ‘I want to get to know you again’. Dean would often have days like that. Sam’s insides flutter when he pulls shit like this, masking his sincerity with jabs, the quiet desperation behind his words. His wanting to relearn Sam, wanting to bond, get them back to the way things were. 

“Ummm, I dunno. I like Fall Out Boy.”

“A what boy? Why's it always boys, Sam? We just established you're an equal opportunity player.”

Dean's grinning over at her, and Sam rolls her eyes, her smile a helpless thing on her face. 

“You're hilarious, Dean. Really, should've been a comedian.”

“Oh wait, it's one of those emo bands, right? With the eyeliner and shit.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You know a lot for not caring about this kinda music.”

Dean shrugs. “Was banging a chick a few months ago who loved to have TRL on in the background. Why is that even still a thing?”

Sam laughs, shaking her head. “I dunno, man.” She pauses for effect. “My Chemical Romance is pretty good, too.”

“Ugh, Sammy. Killin’ me here.”

Sam kicks her feet out further in the footwell and slouches back, tension easing out of her.

They fall into silence for a few minutes before Sam says, “The new Backstreet isn't that bad, actually,” dryly. 

She's surprised when Dean doesn't snort or rag on her. He just says, “I bet Jessica would've liked it.”

“She did, actually,” Sam says, smiling at a memory. 

Dean turns on the music, but he doesn't play Metallica. He plays Fleetwood Mac.  
_______________________

It's a few days later when they find themselves at a bar. Dean's playing pool but the only thing he's trying to hustle is his way into a curvy redhead’s pants. Sam cuts her gaze away, nursing her beer. The slow churn of jealousy is unwelcome. 

She looks back over because she's somewhat of a masochist, lingers on the cock of Dean's hip, the languid grin on his face, the way he looks down and up coyly like he has no idea the affect it has on both women and men.

Jealousy isn't the only unwelcome thing when a guy that's probably as old as her dad sits down next to her and asks if he can buy her a drink. 

“Got one, thanks,” she says, pointedly tipping her bottle in his direction. 

“A self-sufficient lady, I like that.”

Sam groans internally. She hates these one-horse towns, longs for the progressiveness of California that she'd left behind. 

“Yep, I can brush my teeth and comb my hair, too.”

The guy laughs, but it isn't a nice sound. “Firecracker, huh? Come on, baby, let's get to know each other.”

Sam grits her teeth, turns to him fully. “Look, buddy, I -”

“The _lady_ is spoken for,” comes a voice to Sam’s right and then Dean's arm is around her waist and his mouth is pressed against her hair. “Ready to get goin’, babe?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” 

“Asshole,” the guy mutters as Dean steers her away. 

“Douchebag,” Dean replies, yet they make it out the door without a bar fight. 

That is until Sam shrugs out of Dean's grip and pushes him away, hard. 

“What the fuck, Dean?” 

Dean holds up his hands. “What?”

“I can handle myself!”

“Sure you can, little sis.”

Sam glares at him, pushing his chest with both hands. “I'm two inches taller than you, asshole,” she says, stepping right up into his face to prove her point. “And I know how to fight, or do you think that changes just because we aren't hunting?”

Dean's eyes are wide as they look up at her, and she notices he's breathing a little harder. She forces herself to step back, adrenaline racing, feeling a warmth spread where she refuses to acknowledge. 

She watches Dean swallow, his gaze open, a little more vulnerable than usual. He's drunk, she realizes. “S’my job to watch out for you, Sammy. And that includes when it comes to rednecks hitting on you in bars.”

All her anger dissipates, like air being let out of a balloon. “I get it, but just -- I can handle it, okay? You gotta let me handle things on my own sometimes. This isn't my first rodeo.”

His eyes flash with hurt then, and she realizes she's inferred this has happened before and Dean wasn't around for it. Wasn't around for it because of a choice Sam made. And now he's just trying to -- make up for lost time. 

“Okay,” Dean says, jaw tight, looking away. “Sorry, Sammy.”

Sam sighs and holds out her hand. “I'll drive.”

They're almost at the motel when Sam says, “You didn't have to leave that girl, you know.”

Dean grunts. “Wasn't that interested, kiddo,” he says, sleepily. 

Sam knows that isn't true, but she accepts the lie, lets it wash over her.  
____________________

 **Track 5: If U Seek Amy** \-- _All of the boys and all of the girls are begging to_

Four years on the road with her brother. Loss, deals, fights, death, Hell. Drifting together and drifting apart and realizing she's in irrevocable love that is seeded so deep it can never hope to grow its way out of her. 

She almost told him at one point, almost made a move when she was drunk and desperate for him to kill her if it meant saving himself, saving others. They'd been so close, and Dean had looked at her lips, had shied away from the touch to the corner of his mouth like it physically pained him. Like he was remembering the night he'd touched her in the exact same spot. 

It's almost comical that it takes another cover story of being lovers for to be the deus ex machina. Comical, yet also inevitable. 

There are killings happening in town. The only connections are that they're all couples and they all frequented the same club. A sex club. 

Dean is freaked out, which is amusing to see, actually. 

“Never took you for a prude, dude,” Sam calls from the bathroom as she rolls up her stockings. She never wears dresses or skirts, but they're supposed to be selling an image tonight. 

“It's not every day I go to a sex club with my little sister.”

Sam sighs to herself, annoyed at the disappointment that settles low any time he acts like she's still just a little girl in pigtails. 

“We’re just going to research, it's our best cover,” she says patiently. Taking one final look at herself in the mirror, Sam swings the door open. 

Dean pauses in his pacing to gape. A shudder runs through her at the way his eyes drag down her body. “What -- where's the rest of your outfit?” He gestures widely at her legs. 

“Back in the 50s, with your mentality.”

“Hey now!” 

Sam gives him a pointed look while shrugging into her denim jacket. 

“I just never see you in anything but jeans or suits.”

 _I wear shorts to bed, sometime just boxers, you've seen that_ , she thinks but doesn't say.

“Yeah, well. We've got a job to do.”

Dean's in tight black pants and his leather jacket. He's one to talk. 

“Right,” Dean says and she watches him swallow. “Right, let's go.”

The club looks like any other one in the front, but it's the back where it differs. You have to wait your turn to get back there, though, and right now they're just scoping everything out. Sam's on edge, the knowledge of being in a sexual situation with Dean, despite its fallacy, sitting heavy within her. It's a tease in the worst of ways. 

Dean's stiff as he sits on one of the couches with her, nursing a drink. There’re couples on the dance floor and people lingering at the bar who aren't paired up yet. There's a few guys and some girls (and one very obvious couple) giving Sam a good once over. 

She sighs and scoots closer to Dean, pressing their thighs together; he nearly jolts out of his skin. 

“What're you doing?” Dean asks through gritted teeth. 

Sam leans in slowly and speaks in his ear, tries to make it look sexy. “You're acting like I've got herpes, and people are noticing. Whatever this thing is preys on physicality, and we’re not gonna get its attention if you keep ignoring me.”

Dean stiffens further as she speaks. Sam watches the hand on his own thigh open and close rhythmically. 

“So I'm just supposed to mack on baby sister?”

Sam huffs and grabs his hand, squeezing, even as she pulls back to look him in the eye. “I'm not a baby, Dean. I'm a twenty-six-year-old woman and you took me to a makeout point once. Now get over yourself or more people are gonna die.”

Sam's heart beats harder when she realIzes what she said. Neither of them have brought up that night since she was eighteen, and even then they didn't actually talk about it. 

Dean's eyes are wide, shocked. Them he grins, unsteadily.

He stands and holds out his hand to her. “Show me your moves, Samantha.”

A minute later Sam's regretting her life and her choices as she and Dean start awkwardly dancing to the latest Britney Spears single. Sam's not sure what's more surreal: that she's grinding in a sex club with her brother or that Brit’s back on the charts. She remembers dancing around a motel room in Arizona, singing Lucky at the top of her lungs. Dad and Dean had come in when she got to the good part. Dean had ribbed her endlessly; Dad looked at her like he had no idea what to do with a daughter that might like female pop music and wearing lip gloss. Like she was a problem to solve. 

Sam shouldn't be thinking about Dad right now, though. Instead she thinks about the first time she ever danced with someone. Fifteen, junior prom that she was invited to by Ricky Thompson. He kissed her while they slow danced to Truly Madly Deeply. It was her first ever kiss, too. It had only been a few months earlier that she'd realized she wanted to kiss her big brother. 

All roads led back to Dean, was the thing. Sam could trace her life back through music cues, motel rooms, hot summer nights, and even college lectures, and Dean was always there, even if he wasn't physically.

He’s physically there now, though, and he's got his hands loose around the small of Sam’s back. It’s the most polite grinding she's ever been on the receiving end of. Her bare legs brush against the denim of his jeans and her hands are around his waist. 

The song changes. Lady Gaga now. Poor Dean must be dying a slow death, but he's not saying a word and isn't looking at her either. His face is tucked against her neck, and she can feel his breath. It's weird, being taller than him when they're like this. The rhythm’s changed and so has their dancing. He's pressing his hips into hers now, and it goes on for maybe a minute or an age before Sam feels -- and then Dean's pulling back and looking up at her, eyes wide. 

“Shit. Sorry.” His mouth is open, his lips are wet. He's everything she wants and nothing she can have. 

“S’okay,” Sam says over the music, trying to find her voice. “Point of contact, right?” She reasons, low against his ear as they start to dance again, his groin no longer touching her. 

“Uh, right,” Dean says, voice faint.

“Makes it more convincing, I guess,” Sam says casually, as if her heart isn't pounding, as if  
Dean can't feel it when she presses her breasts to his chest. 

As if she hadn't just felt the hot, hard heat of an erection, her _brother’s_ , against her. 

“Sammy…” He trails off, and the stutter of her name washes over her. 

Sam pulls back, looking in Dean's eyes before slowly, deliberately, pulling him in by his belt loops and grinding against his cock. 

His mouth drops open, and she sees a lot of things in his gaze: fear, want, surprise. 

“Dean--”

“A room is probably free now,” Dean says, but his expression has closed down, and his voice is no longer low and rough but determined. This is Dean in case mode. 

Right. Cover firmly established, no reason to delay longer. 

“Yeah,” Sam says and pretends not to notice Dean adjusting his dick in his pants as they leave the dance floor, hand in hand.

“It's the bouncer, gotta be,” Dean says once they're in a room. It's darkly lit, and Sam doesn't want to know what's in the armour off to the side. 

Sam agrees. He gave them the 3rd degree when they came back and took down the information on their IDs, stating it was for safety reasons.

“Safety my ass,” Dean says, throwing himself on the bed. “Ridiculous the cops haven't caught on.”

“So what is he? Just a guy or something else?”

Sam's not looking at him as she takes a seat on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs in her skirt. She's stupidly wet, her underwear soaked with it. 

“Probably some kind of demon that preys on pheromones. Not an incubus per se, but in the same vein.” 

“Right, so. Follow it, set a devil’s trap, exorcise it?”

“That's the plan, Sammy.”

“Right,” Sam repeats, shoulders tense. Meanwhile, no big deal. They're just sitting in a room pretending to have sex. 

“Hey,” Dean says, and Sam feels the bed dip, feels a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”

“I'm fine.” 

“I'm sorry again, about back there.” His thumb strokes absently along her shoulder, and Sam shivers. 

Dean's hand pauses, and she knows he's felt it, too. Surprised he can't smell the arousal she's giving off. 

Suddenly Sam's sixteen again and back in the front seat of the Impala, and when Dean's fingers brush along the back of her neck in a slow line and he says, “Sammy…” in that wondrous, confused tone, Sam knows he's right back there with her. 

She turns to him, lets him see everything she wants, listens to the small gasp from his lips.

“Dean -- I know we shouldn't --” Sam shakes her head, stops. “Actually, screw that, I know why I'm supposed to _think_ we shouldn't, but I don't. I'm sorry, but I don't.”

“Sam,” Dean says again, and it sounds like a plea. Maybe it's always been one, a quest for absolution of this dormant yet ever-present thing between them.

Sam's done sweeping it under the rug, though. 

“Tell me,” she says, raising her hand and cupping his jaw. “Tell me you want this.” Her thumb touches the corner of his mouth like it did all those years ago, and he trembles. “Tell me you don't feel that.”

“Fuck, Sammy, just don't!” he shouts, twisting out of her grip and standing up, looking like a caged animal. 

Sam closes her eyes, breathes in deep. “It's okay to want this, Dean. I'm telling you it's okay.”

Dean scoffs, and she watches him shake his head, back turned to her, shoulders hunched. “You're my little sister and this is the last thing I should want. So don't romanticize this, Sam.”

Sam opens her mouth, but Dean turns, holds up a hand. “Now let's get going. We've got a killer a catch.”

She lets him take one step, two, before saying, “I've been in love with you since I was sixteen. I can't help but romanticize this.”

Dean doesn't turn around but he does freeze. Sam watches him take a deep breath. 

“I can't do this right now, Sam.”

She can hear the plea plainly now and can't deny him some respite. 

Dean waits for her to get up so they can walk out together.

The guy isn't there anymore, though. They wait around in the car for a little bit, the tension high, until finally heading back.

“We’ll look up his address tomorrow,” Dean says, sounding tired as they open the door to the room. 

“Yeah. Look, Dean--”

“Not now, Sam.” 

She sighs and flops down onto the bed, forgetting about the skirt and spreading her legs. She closes her eyes, still lowkey turned on. She can't do anything about it now, though. 

Sam hears the toilet flush, hears the water run, and is getting ready to figure out how to get Dean talking when the door is kicked in and the bouncer is there, eyes flashing black. 

It's a blur after that. He flings her into the wall without touching her. Dean's out of the bathroom, yelling her name, picking up a chair to knock the demon off of her.

His fingers are around her throat, cutting off her circulation, and he's saying things like, “So much want, so much desire, gonna drain it from you.”

“Like hell you will, pal!” Dean clocks him in the head, draws his ire so Sam can start breathing again. Gasping for air, she pulls out one of the anti-possession incantations she has memorized like other people memorize phone numbers and starts to recite it, haltingly, vocal cords protesting.

“You too,” he's saying to Dean now, voice demonic, which -- fitting. “Although,” he pauses, cocking his head, “you're trying to fight it. But you want her. As much as she wants you.”

Dean tries to throw a punch, but the demon catches it. “Great job with the psychoanalysis, man, got any other party tricks?”

“Strongest bond in there tonight,” the demon is saying like he isn't even hearing Dean. 

“Any day now, Sammy!” Dean shouts, back against the door now. 

Sam starts going faster as her voice returns, the Latin falling rapidly from her lips. The demon visibly weakens until it's gone, the vessel collapsing onto the floor. 

Dean's breathing hard and Sam's staring at him from across the room, their eyes locked, chests heaving. 

“Fuck,” Dean says, and then he's crossing in big strides and gathering her into his arms, squeezing hard. “Fuck, if i'd taken a shower like I was gonna--”

“It's okay,” Sam says, and that's usually Dean's line. She's clutching his shoulders, tries to clear her throat. 

“You couldn't breathe.”

Sam nods, her windpipe feeling bruised, her hands shaking. She tucks her face into his shoulder. “You were there.”

“Needed me this time,” Dean says, a hollow laugh escaping his lips, his breath hot on her neck. 

“Always need you,” Sam says, and before she can figure out who's moved first, they're kissing, a clash of lips and teeth and tongue, all blind want and desperation. 

“Shit, Sammy,” Dean gasps, biting at her mouth and kissing her harder, deeper, his hands running up and down her arms, like he needs to make sure she's still whole. 

They pull back too soon, remembering about the civilian who's knocked out on the floor, probably in need of medical attention. 

“Later,” Sam says, holding Dean's eyes and making the word a threat. She can't deal with him backing out on this again. Not now. 

He nods, a small thing, pupils blown. 

“Alright, Sammy. Later.”  
____________________

 **Track 6 (+1): Sex on fire** \-- _hot as a fever, rattling bones_

Later ends up being the next morning, dealing with taking the guy to the hospital, tying up loose ends, checking out and hitting the road before the cops start asking questions. 

They're both exhausted but the tension still crackles and pops between them in the car. They stop at a rest station on the highway and kiss up against the car in between eating donuts. 

“Get a room,” a teenager says, laughing with his friend as they pass by. 

Dean breaks away from her lips, squeezes Sam's ass suggestively, and says, “Oh, we plan to,” leer heavy in his voice. 

“Pig,” Sam says, but she can't help smiling, kissing the sticky sweetness off his lips, slowly exploring his mouth with her tongue and finding his own taste there. 

“Mm, I kinda miss the skirt,” Dean says, palming her over her jeans. 

“Don't get used to it, buddy.”

Dean leans in to kiss her neck, her throat. 

Sam feels like she's been turned on for a million years. 

“So you're on board with this,” she says when they finally break away. She can't help the skepticism in her voice. His resolve had been pretty adamant. 

“Didn't it feel like I was on board?” 

Sam sees right through the eyebrow waggle and bravado. 

“Dean.”

Dean makes a face, uncomfortable like he always is when made to talk about feelings. “I could've lost you tonight,” he says, looking down and away. “I've nearly lost you a lot and if you tell me we can have this, that this isn't something I need to keep denying, that you're right in this with me, have been for a while now--”

He looks up, eyes sparkling. “Then who am I to tell us no?”

Sam can't help it, has to throw her arms around him. They've hugged more tonight than they have in a year, and she can't care, can't help think of it as anything other than exactly where her arms should be. 

Dean's in tune with her, just like always. “Really, Sammy? You gonna get all sappy on me now that we're doin’ this?” But he's squeezing her back just as tight. 

“Come on, let's go get that room.”  
___________________

It's a nicer place than they usually stay. A bed and breakfast. When Sam raises a questioning eyebrow Dean just shrugs and says he's got Eugene McNamara’s credit card burning a hole in his pocket and nowhere to be just yet. 

“Let's have a weekend with nothing else to do, Sammy.”

Sam's heart skips a beat when she realizes Dean is nervous, maybe even a little embarrassed. They check in, and it's different than usual because it's gonna be a room with one bed. It's a place for couples. 

The innkeeper smiles at them. Dean's got his arm wrapped tight around Sam's waist, and suddenly Sam is acutely aware that no one is pretending here. Nothing is for show. She's at a bed and breakfast with the guy she's head-over-heels nuts about, and no one knows or cares who they are or what they're doing. It's all just for them. 

Suddenly Sam's the nervous one, the reality of what's about to happen when they open the door to the room settling in. It's something she let herself imagine a lot when she was younger; it's something she forced herself not to as she got older. It's surreal and breathtaking and scary as all get out, but she's never wanted anything more. 

They get inside the door and instead of Sam finding herself pressed against it, like she expected, Dean just looks around, a low whistle ringing out as he checks out the suite. It's got a huge bed, a balcony, a kitchenette, a bathtub big enough for two. 

Sam's pulse skyrockets. 

“Nice digs, eh Samm--”

He drops the bags in comical fashion as he turns to face Sam and she tries not to blush, her shirt discarded at her feet, her hands on her bra, slowly removing it. 

“Shit…” Dean says, voice thick, his eyes fixed on her breasts as she lets the bra fall to join her shirt. “I wanted to do that…” he says quietly as Sam walks toward him on shaky legs. 

“Did you want me to put it back on?” she teases when she's right in front of him. 

“Don't you dare,” Dean chokes out, eyes still glued to her tits. 

“My face is up here, you know,” Sam says, smirking. 

“I've seen your face for twenty-six years, Sammy,” Dean breathes before lifting his hands to cup her breasts, his touch gentle, like she's something precious to be handled. 

Sam sucks in a breath and arches into the touch. 

Dean thumbs her nipples, which harden quickly under the attention, and a moan escapes her lips. 

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean breathes, leaning in to kiss her throat, mouth mapping along her skin like he's staking claim on new territory.

Sam never really minded the nickname; it was just another way of pushing back. And now she revels in it, the reverent way it falls from his lips, the way he breathes the two syllables into the skin of her clavicle as his mouth travels down to join his hands. 

Sam jerks when his tongue inches out, licking her nipple while his hands squeeze her tits. She knows she's not as big as the women she's seen him with in the past, but Dean's mouth and hands are worshiping her breasts like he'd gladly stay here forever and Sam's knees are starting to buckle.

“Smell so good,” Dean mumbles, kissing the valley between her breasts before taking her right tit into his mouth. “Always smell so damn good, drive me crazy.”

Sam threads her fingers in the short strands of Dean's hair, holding him there, her head thrown back as she gasps. 

“Fuck, yes,” she whispers, listening to Dean moan in response, the vibration shooting right to her center.

A minute or an eternity later, Dean's moving, his hands wide on her abs, curving under her ribcage and dragging up and down her sides while pressing open-mouthed kisses over her belly. 

Her stomach quakes and shivers beneath his touch, and she can't stop stroking his hair, thumbing the sides of his neck.

Dean teases beneath the waistband of her jeans, tongue dipping under the fabric and making her shake and jerk at its barely-there touch. 

“Jerk,” she breathes, groaning as his mouth slides lower, and he's right there, lips pressed to her zipper and sliding downward. 

“Bitch,” he replies, the word like a caress, just before he fits his mouth over her denim clad crotch and _sucks_. 

“Oh, God, Dean.” She digs her fingers into his shoulders, above his t-shirt and jerks into the touch. “Need you, come on.”

He stands then, surging up to kiss her while his hands fly to her pants. Sam gets with the program herself, lifting his shirt up and off, throwing it on the floor with the rest of her clothes. They both fumble for zippers at the same time, licking into one another's mouths like someone just started the stopwatch and they're racing to a finish line. 

They kick off their shoes and their jeans, and then they're standing in just their underwear and looking at one another, sizing each other up like they did all those years ago in California.

Sam still misses Jess, she always will. Dean's the only other person who she could ever see herself making a life with, and Sam likes to think Jess would understand that, despite the taboo. That this is what she needs to be whole. 

“God, come here,” Dean growls, dragging Sam in by the small of her back and kissing her again, pulling her back to the here and now. His hands slide upward, tangle in her hair, tugging on it, before moving down to her ass and squeezing. She's wearing white boyshorts, nothing fancy. Dean squeezes the cheeks of her ass and moans against her neck, before sliding his hands back up, this time slipping beneath her underwear and squeezing bare skin, making her moan. “Want you. Fuck, baby, want you so bad.”

She can feel how much, Dean's dick straining against the fly of his boxers. She grinds her pussy against it, gasping at the feel. She replays his words, shivers at the endearment.

“Bed, Dean,” she gasps against his jaw. “Come on.” 

“Fuck, yes,” he groans, and then he's lifting her, hands cupping her ass tight. Sam squeals and wraps her legs around his thighs, kissing him blindly as he walks them backward to the bed and they fall onto the center of it. 

“Sam,” he sighs, sounding blissed out, drunk on her. Dean fucks against her in a slow, steady grind. Her legs are still around his waist, and she arches her back, drags her groin against his. Broken moans fall from her lips as he starts licking her tits again. 

His tongue, pointed and hard, mouths down the center of her chest and belly in a slow, maddening trail until he reaches the fabric of her panties. 

She bites her lip, sweat pooled on her forehead, the back of her neck. Her hair is damp, and her cheeks are probably red, and her brother is inches away from eating her out, and Sam almost wants to laugh at her life and how this is far from the weirdest, fucked up thing to ever happen to her. Contrastingly, it feels like one of the most normal. 

Her thighs shake as Dean's hands deftly work her panties off her hips. He looks up at her through his lashes, eyes nearly black from want. Sam bites her lip harder. 

“No going back from this, Sammy,” he says, then frowns, backs it up. “I can't go back.” He sounds a little desperate, and she gets it. He's asking her not to leave even though that thought hasn't been a blip on her radar for years now. Moreover, he's asking her to be sure about this, them. 

Sam's been sure since before she could put a name to this feeling. 

“Neither can I,” she tells him honestly. “We won't have to.”

She sees him visibly relax, helps him rid her of the offending fabric of her panties, and then he's back between her legs and wasting no time getting his mouth on her. 

Sam gasps at the first feel of his tongue, hot and heavy over her pussy, licking his way inside in swirls and teasing flicks before dipping back out and finding her clit. She's wet, so wet, and when he slides a finger inside to fuck her slowly while sucking at her clit, Sam nearly loses it. 

“Dean,” she moans, head thrashing against the pillows, her hair falling over her face. “Oh God, yes, _Dean_.”

Her legs are bent, and she throws them over his shoulders, thighs tense, muscles straining. He's fucking her with two fingers now, and licking her everywhere, slicking her up with saliva and her own pre-come, and Sam's never had it this good, never felt this out of her skin, her mind.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispers, teeth nipping at her clit. Sam cries out, legs curling down, toes pushing into his lower back. “That's it, Sammy,” he whispers, and flicks his tongue over her clit at what feels like lightning speed as his fingers curve up inside her. She comes on a scream, never this vocal in bed but unable to help it.

He guides her through it, eases up just when it's this side of too much. Runs his hands up her shaking calves and thighs, moving them so they're straddling his body and then sitting back and rubbing his hands up and down her legs, bending to kiss the join of her thigh. All the while he's whispering things, stuff like, “Fuck, your legs, Sammy. Go on for goddamn days, look at you, make me insane, all spread out for me. Goddamn gorgeous.”

It's so sincere, so unguarded. It's not like their dynamic of teasing and insults and Dean insisting he's the hotter one. It's Dean the way he probably is with a lover, one that's more than just a one-night thing, and Sam realizes it's a side of her brother she's never seen before. It's a piece to the puzzle that's going to be added. 

“Come here, please,” she says, feeling a rush of emotion and suddenly needing to touch him. 

Dean's there in an instant, hovering over her, stroking back her hair from where it's stuck to her forehead and cheeks. 

“What's up? You okay?” His eyes are still hazy with arousal but now clouded by worry as well. 

Sam laughs a little hysterically and shakes her head, still reeling from the aftershocks, and pulls him in and down. “M’fine, God, I'm fine, kiss me you asshole.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Dean snarks back, and then he's there, mouth fitting against hers in something slow and lazy and perfect. 

He groans against her lips, kisses her deeper, letting her taste herself. Sam laps it up, arms tightening around him, pulling him down so he's pressed against her again, bare skin to cotton. 

“Do you want to?” Dean gasps, kissing over her jaw, down her neck, hips thrusting against her in a way that leaves no mistake as to what he's asking. 

“Yes,” Sam breathes. “Shit, yes.”

Dean laughs but it sounds strangled. He pulls back, looking dazed. He drags a hand over the back of his neck. “Let me -- I've got --”

Sam nods, pulse racing. She wants him so bad she can almost feel it already. “Yeah, go,” and practically pushes him off the bed. 

“Bossy as fuck,” Dean mutters as he goes. Sam grabs a pillow and puts it over her face, smiling giddily into it before tossing it aside again. 

Dean's back in an instant, strip of condoms in hand. 

“Optimistic,” she says, eyebrow arched, smile still tugging at her lips. 

“Practical,” Dean corrects, shedding his boxers and leaping onto the bed. “If you think I'm actually letting you out of this bed for the next two days, you've got another think coming.”

“Hmm, and here I thought we’d try out the tub.” Sam's trying to get a good look at his dick, has never really seen it, and definitely not hard. 

“Oh, yeah, the tub. Good call. You're such a genius, Sammy.” He's sitting back on his haunches now, rolling a condom on and oh -- yeah, it's nice as far as dicks go. It's really damn -- nice.

Dean catches her, of course, and she flushes red. “Fuck off,” she says, beating him to the punch. 

“Nah, don't think you want that,” Dean replies, smirking. “You like the goods?” He shakes his hips, dick slapping against his stomach.

Sam rolls her eyes. “Do you?” she counters, spreading her legs a little wider, exposed, still sopping wet but just going for it. 

Dean eyes her, tongue licking his lips in an unconscious motion. “I really fucking do, Sammy,” he says when he meets her eyes again, voice wrecked. Any familiar competition between them dissipates in the face of this new thing, desire taking a front seat again. 

Sam stifles a whimper as his eyes bore a hole into her. “Fuck me, Dean.”

She watches his dick leap. “Jesus,” he mutters, and then he's on top of her, and they're kissing again. Her legs bracket his hips as he eases his way inside, making her gasp. He's hot and thick and Sam feels him everywhere, down to her soul.

When he's all the way inside, he pauses and brushes her hair back again. “You good?” 

Sam nods, not trusting her voice. She's more than good. 

“'Kay.” Dean bends down, sucks her lower lip hotly, tugs on it with his teeth. “You feel so fucking incredible.”

“Better watch it,” Sam says, throat hoarse. “All this praise is gonna go to my head.”

Dean snorts but he's still stroking her hair, her cheek. Then he starts to move. It's intense at first, almost too intense. He doesn't look away from her, like he's memorizing every gasp, every moan, every flutter of her eyes. 

Sam looks back, her fingers scratching up and down his back, her breasts against his chest. It's a slow rhythm to start until it picks up, gaining a crescendo of kisses and touches and the thick in-and-out grind of his dick inside her, filling her up and making her shake and moan. 

Her legs find their way around his waist again, and Dean begins fucking her harder, the bedframe slamming against the wall with each thrust. 

“God, baby,” he's groaning the words into her neck, kissing her everywhere, sweat slicking up their skin and making everything that much hotter. “What's it take? Tell me what it takes to get you there.”

Sam gasps, arches up to meet his thrusts, rolling her hips in a circle. “Grind against my clit.”

Dean groans, sucks at her neck hard. “I'll do you one better.”

He's rolling them over before she can ask what he means, and then she's on top and they're kissing again until Dean pushes her back, hands fitting beneath her breasts before cupping them again. “Ride me, Sammy.”

Sam's eyes flutter shut and she gasps, the angle changing as she starts to fuck herself on his cock. She gets in deep, rolls her hips again so he's pressed just where she needs him. She takes it all, all that he's giving her. She bends forward, bracing over him and fucking down harder, faster, while Dean’s too-fucking-perfect mouth closes around her nipple again, tugging just right. 

Sam feels it build then, the wave of it spreading through her, almost painful with its intensity. She bucks against him, clenching down tight as she circles her hips harder, faster, head thrown back as loud cries fall from her lips. 

Faintly she can hear Dean saying, “Oh, shit. Yeah, come for me, baby. Oh God, _Sam_ ,” but it's mostly drowned out by the rushing in her ears and the force of her orgasm, her own cries of “Dean, fuck, fuck yes.”

Dean comes inside her while she's still fluttering around him, his hands heavy on her hips, hips fucking up and up until his thighs tense beneath her and he shouts her name. 

Sam slumps down on top of him, breathing hard, her heart attempting to beat out of her ribcage. Her hair is a messy cascade against his chest, sticking to his skin as he drags shaking hands up and down her back. 

“Good God,” Dean pants. “So that's what we've been missing all these years?”

Sam laughs weakly. “Apparently.” She shifts, sliding off of his dick and flopping down on her stomach next to him, slipping beneath his arm, her head resting in the curve of his shoulder. 

“Genetics has one fucked up sense of humor, man.”

“I'll say,” Sam replies drowsily.

“And we totally just put on a show for that nice old lady downstairs.”

“I'm sure she's heard worse,” Sam says around a yawn. They're both gross and should probably clean up, but Sam also can't even think about moving right now, body boneless and more fucked out than she's been in years.

She hears Dean get rid of the condom, moaning in protest when he jostles her a little to do so, and then he's back, fingers drawing light patterns over the small of her back, lips pressing a kiss to her temple, the corner of her eye.

Sam's pretty sure Dean’s fallen asleep and is nearly there herself until he says, “I never said it back.”

She lifts her head halfheartedly, squinting up at him. “Said what?”

Dean meets her eyes, vulnerability shining through. “That I'm in love with you, too.”

Sam’s stomach somersaults, and her smile is instantaneous. 

“Well. Better late than never.”

[end]

**Author's Note:**

> Music! 
> 
> [Samantha Winchester's 1990s Mixtape](http://8tracks.com/sometimesalways/samantha-winchester-s-1990s-mixtape) \- a collection of songs she liked/related to growing up  
> [beautiful girl (stay with me)](http://8tracks.com/sometimesalways/beautiful-girl-stay-with-me) \- the Sam/Dean mix


End file.
